Part 20
He was not satisfied; His look was all dissatisfied. His beard swung on a wind far out of sight Behind the world’s curve, and there was light Most fearful from His forehead, and He sighed, “That star went always wrong, and from the start I was dissatisfied.”
He lifted up His hand— I say He heaved a dreadful hand Over the spinning Earth, then I said: “Stay— You must not strike it, God; I’m in the way; And I will never move from where I stand.” He said, “Dear child, I feared that you were dead,” And stayed His hand.
BESSIE BOBTAIL
As down the street she wambled slow, She had not got a place to go: She had not got a place to fall And rest herself—no place at all. She stumped along and wagged her pate And said a thing was desperate.
Her face was screwed and wrinkled tight Just like a nut—and, left and right, On either side she wagged her head And said a thing; and what she said Was desperate as any word That ever yet a person heard.
I walked behind her for a while And watched the people nudge and smile. But ever as she went she said, As left and right she swung her head, —“Oh, God He knows,” and “God He knows:” And surely God Almighty knows.
HATE
My enemy came high, And I Stared fiercely in his face. My lips went writhing back in a grimace, And stern I watched him with a narrow eye. Then, as I turned away, my enemy, That bitter heart and savage, said to me: “Some day, when this is past, When all the arrows that we have are cast, We may ask one another why we hate, And fail to find a story to relate. It may seem to us then a mystery That we could hate each other.” Thus said he, And did not turn away, Waiting to hear what I might have to say. But I fled quickly, fearing if I stayed I might have kissed him as I would a maid.
THE WASTE PLACES
I
As a naked man I go Through the desert sore afraid, Holding up my head although I’m as frightened as a maid.
The couching lion there I saw From barren rocks lift up his eye; He parts the cactus with his paw, He stares at me as I go by.
He would follow on my trace If he knew I was afraid, If he knew my hardy face Hides the terrors of a maid.
In the night he rises and He stretches forth, he snuffs the air; He roars and leaps along the sand, He creeps and watches everywhere.
His burning eyes, his eyes of bale, Through the darkness I can see; He lashes fiercely with his tail, He would love to spring at me.
I am the lion in his lair; I am the fear that frightens me; I am the desert of despair And the nights of agony.
Night or day, whate’er befall, I must walk that desert land, Until I can dare to call The lion out to lick my hand.
II
As a naked man I tread The gloomy forests, ring on ring, Where the sun that’s overhead Cannot see what’s happening.
There I go: the deepest shade, The deepest silence pressing me; And my heart is more afraid Than a maiden’s heart would be.
Every day I have to run Underneath the demon tree, Where the ancient wrong is done While I shrink in agony.
There the demon held a maid In his arms, and as she, daft, Screamed again in fear, he laid His lips upon her lips and laughed.
And she beckoned me to run, And she called for help to me, And the ancient wrong was done Which is done eternally.
I am the maiden and the fear; I am the sunless shade, the strife; I the demon lips, the sneer Showing under every life.
I must tread that gloomy way Until I shall dare to run And bear the demon with his prey From the forest to the sun.
HAWKS
And as we walked the grass was faintly stirred; We did not speak—there was no need to speak. Above our heads there flew a little bird, A silent one who feared that we might seek Her hard-hid nest.
Poor little frightened one! If we had found your nest that sunny day We would have passed it by; we would have gone And never looked or frightened you away.
O little bird! there’s many have a nest, A hard-found, open place, with many a foe; And hunger and despair and little rest, And more to fear than you can know.
Shield the nests where’er they be, On the ground or on the tree; Guard the poor from treachery.
DARK WINGS
Sing while you may, O bird upon the tree! Although on high, wide-winged above the day, Chill evening broadens to immensity, Sing while you may.
On thee, wide-hovering too, intent to slay, The hawk’s slant pinion buoys him terribly— Thus near the end is of thy happy lay.
The day and thou and miserable me Dark wings shall cover up and hide away Where no song stirs of bird or memory: Sing while you may.
George Sterling
A LEGEND OF THE DOVE
Soft from the linden’s bough, Unmoved against the tranquil afternoon, Eve’s dove laments her now: “Ah, gone! long gone! shall not I find thee soon?”
That yearning in his voice Told not to Paradise a sorrow’s tale: As other birds rejoice He sang, a brother to the nightingale.
By twilight on her breast He saw the flower sleep, the star awake; And calling her from rest, Made all the dawn melodious for her sake.
And then the Tempter’s breath, The sword of exile and the mortal chain— The heritage of death That gave her heart to dust, his own to pain....
In Eden desolate The seraph heard his lonely music swoon, As now, reiterate; “Ah, gone! long gone! shall not I find thee soon?”
KINDRED
Musing, between the sunset and the dark, As Twilight in unhesitating hands Bore from the faint horizon’s underlands, Silvern and chill, the moon’s phantasmal ark, I heard the sea, and far away could mark Where that unalterable waste expands In sevenfold sapphire from the mournful sands, And saw beyond the deep a vibrant spark.
There sank the sun Arcturus, and I thought: Star, by an ocean on a world of thine, May not a being, born like me to die, Confront a little the eternal Naught And watch our isolated sun decline— Sad for his evanescence, even as I?
OMNIA EXEUNT IN MYSTERIUM
The stranger in my gates—lo! that am I, And what my land of birth I do not know, Nor yet the hidden land to which I go. One may be lord of many ere he die, And tell of many sorrows in one sigh, But know himself he shall not, nor his woe, Nor to what sea the tears of wisdom flow; Nor why one star is taken from the sky.
An urging is upon him evermore, And though he bide, his soul is wanderer, Scanning the shadows with a sense of haste— Where fade the tracks of all who went before: A dim and solitary traveller On ways that end in evening and the waste.
THE LAST DAYS
The russet leaves of the sycamore Lie at last on the valley floor— By the autumn wind swept to and fro Like ghosts in a tale of long ago. Shallow and clear the Carmel glides Where the willows droop on its vine-walled sides.
The bracken-rust is red on the hill; The pines stand brooding, somber and still; Gray are the cliffs, and the waters gray, Where the seagulls dip to the sea-born spray. Sad November, lady of rain, Sends the goose-wedge over again.
Wilder now, for the verdure’s birth, Falls the sunlight over the earth; Kildees call from the fields where now The banding blackbirds follow the plow; Rustling poplar and brittle weed Whisper low to the river-reed.
Days departing linger and sigh: Stars come soon to the quiet sky; Buried voices, intimate, strange, Cry to body and soul of change; Beauty, eternal fugitive, Seeks the home that we cannot give.
Wallace Stevens
PETER QUINCE AT THE CLAVIER
I
Just as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the self-same sounds On my spirit make a music too.
Music is feeling then, not sound; And thus it is that what I feel, Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk, Is music. It is like the strain Waked in the elders by Susanna:
Of a green evening, clear and warm, She bathed in her still garden, while The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their being throb In witching chords, and their thin blood Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
II
In the green water, clear and warm, Susanna lay. She searched The touch of springs, And found Concealed imaginings. She sighed For so much melody.
Upon the bank she stood In the cool Of spent emotions. She felt, among the leaves, The dew Of old devotions.
She walked upon the grass, Still quavering. The winds were like her maids, On timid feet, Fetching her woven scarves, Yet wavering.
A breath upon her hand Muted the night. She turned— A cymbal crashed, And roaring horns.
III
Soon, with a noise like tambourines, Came her attendant Byzantines.
They wondered why Susanna cried Against the elders by her side:
And as they whispered, the refrain Was like a willow swept by rain.
Anon, their lamps’ uplifted flame Revealed Susanna and her shame.
And then the simpering Byzantines, Fled, with a noise like tambourines.
IV
Beauty is momentary in the mind— The fitful tracing of a portal; But in the flesh it is immortal.
The body dies; the body’s beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing. So gardens die, their meek breath scenting The cowl of Winter, done repenting. So maidens die, to the auroral Celebration of a maiden’s choral.
Susanna’s music touched the bawdy strings Of those white elders; but, escaping, Left only Death’s ironic scraping. Now, in its immortality, it plays On the clear viol of her memory, And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
IN BATTLE
Death’s nobility again Beautified the simplest men. Fallen Winkle felt the pride Of Agamemnon When he died.
What could London’s Work and waste Give him— To that salty, sacrificial taste?
What could London’s Sorrow bring— To that short, triumphant sting?
SUNDAY MORNING
I
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair, And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug, mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice. She dreams a little, and she feels the dark Encroachment of that old catastrophe, As a calm darkens among water-lights. The pungent oranges and bright, green wings Seem things in some procession of the dead, Winding across wide water, without sound. The day is like wide water, without sound, Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet Over the seas, to silent Palestine, Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.
II
She hears, upon that water without sound, A voice that cries: “The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering; It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.” We live in an old chaos of the sun, Or old dependency of day and night, Or island solitude, unsponsored, free, Of that wide water, inescapable. Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail Whistle about us their spontaneous cries; Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness; And, in the isolation of the sky, At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink, Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
III
She says: “I am content when wakened birds, Before they fly, test the reality Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings; But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields Return no more, where, then, is paradise?” There is not any haunt of prophecy, Nor any old chimera of the grave, Neither the golden underground, nor isle Melodious, where spirits gat them home, Nor visionary South, nor cloudy palm Remote on heaven’s hill, that has endured As April’s green endures; or will endure Like her remembrance of awakened birds, Or her desire for June and evening, tipped By the consummation of the swallow’s wings.
IV
She says, “But in contentment I still feel The need of some imperishable bliss.” Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams And our desires. Although she strews the leaves Of sure obliteration on our paths— The path sick sorrow took, the many paths Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love Whispered a little out of tenderness— She makes the willow shiver in the sun For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet. She causes boys to bring sweet-smelling pears And plums in ponderous piles. The maidens taste And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.
V
Supple and turbulent, a ring of men Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn Their boisterous devotion to the sun— Not as a god, but as a god might be, Naked among them, like a savage source. Their chant shall be a chant of paradise, Out of their blood, returning to the sky; And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice, The windy lake wherein their lord delights, The trees, like seraphim, and echoing hills, That choir among themselves long afterward. They shall know well the heavenly fellowship Of men that perish and of summer morn— And whence they came and whither they shall go, The dew upon their feet shall manifest.
Ajan Syrian
THE SYRIAN LOVER IN EXILE REMEMBERS THEE, LIGHT OF MY LAND
Rose and amber was the sunset on the river, Red-rose the hills about Bingariz. High upon their brows, the black tree-branches Spread wide across the turquoise sky. I saw the parrots fly— A cloud of rising green from the long green grasses, A mist of gold and green winging fast Into the gray shadow-silence of the tamarisks. Pearl-white and wild was the flood below the ford. I ran down the long hot road to thy door; Thy door shone—a white flower in the dusk lingering to close. The stars rose and stood above thy casement. I cast my cloak and climbed to thee, To thee, Makhir Subatu!
· · · · ·
Naked she stood and glistening like the stars over her— Her hair trailed about her like clouds about the moon— Naked as the soul seeking love, As the soul that waits for death. White with benediction, pendulous, unfolding from the dark As the crystal sky of morning, she waited, And leaned her light above the earth of my desire. Like a world that spins from the hand of Infinity, Up from the night I leaped— To thee, Makhir Subatu!
· · · · ·
Pearl-bright and wild, a flood without a ford, The River of Love flowed on. Her eyes were gleaming sails in a storm, Dipping, swooning, beckoning. The dawn came and trampled over her; Gray-arched and wide, the sanctuary of light descended. It was the altar where I lay; And I lifted my face at last, praying. I saw the first glow fall about her, Like marble pillars coming forth from the shadow. I raised my hands, thanking the gods That in love I had grown so tall I could touch the two lamps in heaven, The sun and moon hanging in the low heaven beneath her face. How great through love had I grown To breathe my flame into the two lamps of heaven!
O eyes of the eagle and the dove, Eyes red-starred and white-starred, Eyes that have too much seen, too much confessed, Close, close, beneath my kisses! Tell me no more, demand me no more—it is day. I see the gold-green rain of parrot-wings Sparkling athwart the gray and rose-gold morning. I go from thy closed door down the long lone road To the ricefields beyond the river, Beyond the river that has a ford.
· · · · ·
I came to thee with hope, with desire. I have them no longer. Sleep, sleep; I am locked in thee.
· · · · ·
_Thus the exile lover remembers thee, Makhir Subatu!_
Rabindranath Tagore
FROM “GITANJALI”
I
Thou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not. Thou hast given me seats in homes not my own. Thou hast brought the distant near and made a brother of the stranger. I am uneasy at heart when I have to leave my accustomed shelter; I forgot that there abides the old in the new, and that there also thou abidest. Through birth and death, in this world or in others, wherever thou leadest me it is thou, the same, the one companion of my endless life who ever linkest my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar. When one knows thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut. Oh, grant me my prayer that I may never lose the bliss of the touch of the One in the play of the many.
II
No more noisy, loud words from me, such is my master’s will. Henceforth I deal in whispers. The speech of my heart will be carried on in murmurings of a song. Men hasten to the King’s market. All the buyers and sellers are there. But I have my untimely leave in the middle of the day, in the thick of work. Let then the flowers come out in my garden, though it is not their time, and let the midday bees strike up their lazy hum. Full many an hour have I spent in the strife of the good and the evil, but now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to draw my heart on to him, and I know not why is this sudden call to what useless inconsequence!
III
On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying, and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded. Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange smell in the south wind. That vague fragrance made my heart ache with longing, and it seemed to me that it was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion. I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and this perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart.
IV
By all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world. But it is otherwise with thy love, which is greater than theirs, and thou keepest me free. Lest I forget them they never venture to leave me alone. But day passes by after day and thou art not seen. If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart—thy love for me still waits for my love.
V
I was not aware of the moment when I first crossed the threshold of this life. What was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery like a bud in the forest at midnight? When in the morning I looked upon the light I felt in a moment that I was no stranger in this world, that the inscrutable without name and form had taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother. Even so, in death the same unknown will appear as ever known to me. And because I love this life, I know I shall love death as well. The child cries out when from the right breast the mother takes it away to find in the very next moment its consolation in the left one.
VI
Thou art the sky and thou art the nest as well. Oh, thou beautiful, there in the nest it is thy love that encloses the soul with colors and sounds and odors. There comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand bearing the wreath of beauty, silently to crown the earth. And there comes the evening over the lonely meadows deserted by herds, through trackless paths, carrying cool draughts of peace in her golden pitcher from the western ocean of rest. But there, where spreads the infinite sky for the soul to take her flight in, reigns the stainless white radiance. There is no day nor night, nor form nor color, and never never a word.
FROM “THE GARDENER”
I
Over the green and yellow rice fields sweep the shadows of the autumn clouds, followed by the swift-chasing sun. The bees forget to sip their honey; drunken with the light they foolishly hum and hover; and the ducks in the sandy riverbank clamor in joy for mere nothing.
None shall go back home, brothers, this morning, none shall go to work. We will take the blue sky by storm and plunder the space as we run. Laughters fly floating in the air like foams in the flood. Brothers, we shall squander our morning in futile songs.
II